Achtung songfic set
Title: Achtung Set
Characters and Pairings: Malcolm/Leandra, f!Hawke/Anders, f!Hawke/Isabela, Zevran, Oghren, Anders-Justice-Vengeance
Rating: K+
Words: For all six drabbles combined, 4,135.
Summary: A few months ago a friend who was museblocked asked me to join her in writing a set of fics loosely based on/inspired by songs from U2's Achtung Baby album. She took the evens, I took the odds. Here's what resulted on my end. Knowing the songs shouldn't be required though might add a layer of depth (links provided for those curious)
Spoilers?: Not for Legacy. Not even really for DA2, aside from Foreshadowing to the max in the last one.
Note: Written before Legacy or the Mage Pack DLC came out, so only dubiously in canon; I'd write Malcolm differently now.
Zoo Station
He smirks, looking up at the viscount's keep, which tonight is hosting a huge masquerade ball for all the nobles. No one's allowed in without an invitation, true...if they come in through the front doors. And while armored bodyguards are all very well, it's amazing how few of them ever think to look up. Astonishing, really, how they overlook the opportunities available to those who aren't weighed down with half a ton of metal. It's a wonder they're able to catch any apostates at all...
Still, he'd better be cautious, inasmuch as he's ever cautious. Getting away from Templars who are expecting magic rather than more mundane methods is surprisingly easy if you can keep your head, but these fellows aren't looking for apostates, just ordinary gate-crashers. Which for once is what he is.
Well, not an ordinary gate-crasher...he's not an ordinary anything. And quite smug about it, thank you very much.
Quietly, he moves to the edge of the roof. This is the closest building he could find to the keep; it's still farther than he'd like, but good things are worth a little risk...and he has planned this very carefully. In just another moment, the guard will come around the corner...yes, there he is, walking by...turning the other corner...
Malcolm whispers under his breath and gestures, and the guard falls over, slipping on a small but well-placed amount of grease that hadn't been on the ground a moment beforehand. The clatter of armor crashing to the ground, combined with an impressive amount of invective, nicely covers the sound of Malcolm placing a long ladder between his roof and the roof of the gardener's shed. The Templar still hasn't sorted himself out by the time Malcolm has scurried across. Malcolm brings the ladder with him; he's examined this shed in the past, and it contains a number of ladders already, and he can leave this one with the rest and it will attract no notice. While he's doing that, he retrieves and changes into the costume he hid there days before, after pulling it out of the paper he used to keep it clean and protected from the dirt that accumulates in sheds. When he exits, he looks like any other partygoer, in a colorful silk tunic and trews and a domino mask. Part one completed, perfectly.
Part two: the rendevous. He loves that word. Orlesians have all the best language.
She's waiting exactly where they planned, wearing a surprisingly uncomplicated gown; compared to the frothy confections being worn by the other guests, it stands out in its simplicity. The bird mask, on the other hand, is a wonder of feathers and glitter. Again, all part of the plan. Though he briefly forgets the plan as she pulls off her mask and smiles hugely for him, eyes shining with delight and anticipation. Gallantly, he bows and kisses her fingers. She curtseys, and he bends to kiss her fingers again, perhaps a little more fervently this time--
When he's rapped on the knuckles by a fan, held by the third member of their conspiracy: Leandra's friend Marian, who is grinning as broadly as Leandra but has a raised eyebrow: this is not the time. Ah well. He'll be able to kiss Leandra's fingers as much as he wants after tonight, not to mention all the rest of her...Marian is wearing a rather more substantial costume that makes her resemble a bear, albeit a surprisingly attractive bear. Her choice of costume had solicited some comments from the gossips as well, but Marian delights in being eccentric and a reputation for being unwomanly won't bother her in the least. And the bulk of her costume is largely an illusion, hiding certain things they'll need to pull this off...
Marian and Leandra duck into an alcove in the gardens. Nothing unusual about that, many friends and couples are doing exactly the same thing in order to have more private conversations--or in the case of some of the couples, "conversations"--than they can have in the stifling ballroom. Marian and Leandra, however, use their few moments out of sight to effect a costume change, as quickly as they can. They're both trying hard not to laugh. Neither is succeeding. Ah well, that just adds to the illusion that they're friends exchanging gossip about the latest inappropriate love affairs amongst the nobility...
Which, of course, is true.
When they emerge, Marian is wearing Leandra's costume, whereas Leandra is wearing an entirely new outfit, one that vaguely suggests a tree-rat. It's a simple costume as well, just a brown dress and mask with cowl; it had to be simple, or else Marian wouldn't have been able to wear it under her original costume and thus smuggle it in. Marian's own original costume will be well hidden in the bushes, and if later when she retrieves it it's covered with a certain amount of leaves and dirt, well, it won't be the first time Marian has disappeared during a party only to emerge later looking like she's been rolled in the grass...Leandra and Marian exchange one last, fierce embrace with parting words, and Malcolm clasps her hand tightly, letting his eyes say his thanks. Marian flashes them a grin and all three return to the ballroom.
Now comes the fun part, the beautifully simple part. Now that Leandra's in her new costume they mingle with the other masqueraders for a while, dance one or two of the dances surrounded by a cacophany of other "animals", and then stroll out. As simple as that. They walk through the ballroom and out the front door, because while the guards are immensely cautious about who they allow in, people who are leaving at once cease to be important.
The party inside will go on for hours, he knows. Marian will spend most of the rest of the evening imitating Leandra and leading that poor Orlesian boy along. He won't be able to tell it isn't really his fiancee; he and Leandra barely know each other. Leandra's parents will beam with approval from a distance and not interrupt, grateful that their stubborn daughter is at last behaving herself. Towards the end of the party Marian will replace her original costume--not removing the Leandra-dress, which is uncomplicated enough that it can be worn underneath without being discovered--and "Leandra" will effectively disappear into thin air, hours after her actual disappearance. The only bit of actual evidence they will have left behind will be Leandra's mask, which Marian cannot smuggle out but will leave somewhere innocuous, ideally with other abandoned masks. Few people at a masquerade keep their masks on for the entire evening, and they tend to pile up by the evening's end. No one will have noticed either Leandra or Marian approach the front door, which will help protect Marian from being blamed for her part in the elopement; her parents put up with a great deal from their only child, but even they have limits. Even if anyone does manage to put all the pieces together and guess how the disappearance was managed, it will take hours or perhaps days to accomplish.
And by that time, they'll be long gone.
Malcolm grins at his beloved, who laughs back up at him, eyes flashing as she squeezes his hand.
Life with her is going to be his last, best adventure. And he can't wait for it to start.
One
They don't talk about anything anymore. Nothing important. Small commonplaces they can manage, battle exchanges, communal talk with the group. When they're at home, the odd questions and statements that come with living with someone. Hand me that robe, ask Bodahn if he can do this, can you add some more wood to the fire. Please and thank you. Courtesies. They can be courteous, but not honest. She misses the days when they could be honest with each other. No; she misses the days when she wanted him to be honest with her. Now, she knows without asking that she doesn't want to know, doesn't want her suspicions confirmed, even assuming he would trust her enough to confirm them. So she doesn't ask, and he doesn't tell, and they are courteous.
He broke something in her with his demand that she help him without asking questions, with his declaration that if she refused it would mean she didn't love him. They both know it. She did help him, and he knew better than to thank her, and they haven't spoken about it since. Speaking would mean having to acknowledge that too much has already been said.
They cling to each other in the night as though clinging to the night, as though that will keep the dawn from breaking, the new day starting, and every moment that leads towards sunrise is oppressive. In the dark, for a little while at least, they can pretend. Their hands and mouths exchange the words they cannot, the comforts and endearments and love they can't speak anymore. And if there's an undertone of dread, regret, despair, that can be pushed aside in the fever of lovemaking.
But not pushed far, and afterwards, every night, she folds herself into a tight ball, and wonders who will carry her when he falls.
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses
Isabela tugs the shirt over her head with difficulty. It's tighter than she expected...well, her breasts are substantial. She smirks. That will work to advantage in this scenario, anyway. She's at risk of damaging the shirt, but it's not one of Hawke's favorites, so who cares? Best not to tease her lover about her smaller bust size, however. Unless she can do so in a way that will lead to a wet shirt contest...mmmm...
Isabela shakes her head, returning to the task at hand. Shirt accomplished, she tugs on the breeches. Those go on easily enough, Hawke is a bit larger in the hips than she is. She loves that, those delicious hips that just beg for hands to circle and caress them and...right, distracted again. Belt pouch, weapon sheaths, other various accessories follow next; her own jewelry and scarf have already been given to her partner-in-crime for Hawke's own preparations. She ties her hair into as tight a bun as she can manage, which is the closest she can get to an approximation of Hawke's pixie-short hairstyle. The game might have been her idea originally, but she draws the line at cutting her hair for it.
There. That seems to be all the details sorted. Whistling with anticipation, she opens the door and strolls back into bedroom.
Hawke is waiting, leaning across a table in an unusually provocative manner; Isabela realizes with a thrill that Hawke is copying her stance. Once, the idea of someone knowing her well enough to mimic her unconscious habits would have sent her running, but with Hawke...well, she doesn't mind. In accordance with the game, Hawke is wearing Isabela's usual outfit, white bodice untied at the front to reveal creamier curves than her own, and parted at the sides to show those gorgeous hips...Isabela's gold hoops twinkle at the ears, and the head-scarf highlights those astonishing blue eyes. "Looking for me, sweet thing?" Hawke mumurs.
"Mm, I certainly am," Isabela purrs. She should be trying to talk as Hawke would, but just at the moment she doesn't really remember how Hawke would talk before sex, she's too busy thinking about sex. "Do I look as good as you do in that outfit? No wonder everyone's always after me."
Hawke laughs and saunters around the table, hips swaying. "Personally I think you look much better out of it."
Isabela smirks. "It's been said."
Later, when the costumes are discarded, when they're entwined in each other, it occurs to Isabela how much she's changed, how much both of them have changed. The things she's given up for this don't feel like a sacrifice, however; she doesn't feel any less herself. Instead she feels like more than herself. Who is Hawke, and who is Isabela? They're lost in each other, lost in loving, and for the first time in her life Isabela flings her head back and lets herself drown.
Author's note: Anyone wanting to draw me fanart of this will get cookies. Lots of cookies. All the cookies.
The Fly
Zevran lifts an eyebrow at the man who joins him at his table in the back of the tavern. "I was not expecting company," is all he says. "Have you some business with me?" He signals to a barmaid, who brings a bottle of wine and two glasses.
The stranger--who is not a stranger, Zevran knows perfectly well who he is, although they have not met--snorts. "Spare me the pleasantries. I know all about your business. You are an Antivan Crow, and you are in town to kill me."
Zevran pours them each a glass of wine, and offers one to the stranger, who takes it but does not drink. "And yet, believing this, you choose to sit at a table with me? I am impressed by your audacity, I admit."
"Don't play games. I want to make a deal. Whatever you've been offered by the Crows, I will pay triple if you instead take out the man who hired the hit on me."
Zevran makes a clucking sound under his nose. "Oh my friend, you do not understand how the Crows work. As I understand it--of course I have no personal knowledge as I am not a Crow myself, whatever you may think--" The man snorts again, this time with disbelief, but doesn't interrupt further. "--once a contract has been taken, assassins are sent until it is completed. If an assassin undertakes a contract and then for any reason refuses to complete it, why then, the next sent is to take his life as well." He holds up his glass in a toast and takes a sip before continuing. "So you see, your request is...problematic, to say the least."
The man looks unconcerned. "I am offering triple the amount offered. I know what my life must have been worth; the Crows are as mercenary as any other group."
"Ah, but they consider a bargain concluded to be a matter of honor."
Zevran holds out the other glass of wine; the man ignores it and slams a fist down on the table. "An assassin, speaking of honor?"
"Well, you must have some faith in the honor of assassins, must you not? Or else you would not be sitting with me, even though you are so discourteous as to refuse to drink the wine I have just bought you."
"I'm not such a fool. You can't attack me here, not with so many witnesses. You'd never get away with it. But poison, that's another matter."
Zevran shrugs, unoffended. "If you prefer, we can trade glasses. You have seen me drink from this one, you know it cannot be poisoned."
"You could have taken an antidote and poisoned them both. I don't trust you. I just want you to deliver my message."
Zevran holds up his hands. "You wound me! I give you my word I have no intentions of poisoning you. But if you are unwilling to share in the pleasure of a harmless glass of wine, that is your concern."
The man's eyes are fierce. "And my message?"
Zevran shrugs and lowers his voice. "I will deliver it, in exchange for, shall we say, ten gold pieces. Paid in advance. But I do not think it will aid you."
The man visibly relaxes. "That's all I ask." He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a small pouch, and counts out the coins. "I'm sure your Guildmaster will be reasonable."
Zevran smiles. "He is a man of business, it is true." He nods a farewell and leaves the tavern.
The man sinks into a seat, and breathes a sigh of relief. He sits in the tavern for a time, but doesn't order anything, not--quite--trusting the assassin to not have arranged for poison somewhere. He's always had a dread of poison. Finally he leaves and makes his way home.
He is only a block away when a hand reaches out from a nearby alley and pulls him in; another hand shoves a dagger into the small of his back, between the vertebrae, severing the spine. It only takes a second. He is released, and falls to the ground. His legs cannot hold him, and he has only seconds left.
"Your word--" he croaks, before blood chokes his throat.
"Was good; I never lie. You have not been poisoned. You have been set upon. It is entirely different." Zevran smirked. "I dislike killing by poison. It is so impersonal. I will deliver your message to the Crows, as promised; I never said I would do so before fulfilling my task. It would have availed you nothing, believe me. As I told you, the Guildmaster is a man of business, and it would not be good for business for word to spread that the Crows may be bribed. You should have let me buy you a glass of wine, my friend. It is such a shame to let you go to your gods without that last courtesy. Ah well, your choice."
Zevran walks away, whistling, as the man breathes his last in the alleyway.
Tryin' to Throw Your Arms Around the World
Oghren wakes up in a gutter. More specifically, he wakes up in a pool of his own vomit, in a gutter, with a head that's pounding so hard it might as well be the sodding Anvil of the Void. As usual, he doesn't remember much. He idly wonders if the amnesia is deliberate or accidental this time, then shrugs and doesn't bother to find out. He could've been drinking to forget, there's always something he needs to forget. Or he could've been jumped and beaten by a group of nughumpers who then kicked him in the head for a while when he was down; it doesn't happen often, it takes a lot of sodding nughumpers to take down the mighty Oghren even now, but it can be done if there's enough of them. Or most likely he was drinking to forget and then was jumped and then was drinking to forget he'd been jumped, or perhaps the other way around. Except that the other way around is the same as the first way around...?
Oghren groans and rolls over, which at least pulls his beard out of the vomit. He'd better find a bucket of water to throw over his head sometime soon. Or maybe just take a lava bath. Heh, that'd get him clean. Even Branka couldn't complain, and Branka can always complain.
Oh yeah, Branka. That's why he was drinking. She's finally actually for-real-this-time left, off to the Deep Roads to search for the Anvil. She refused point blank to allow him to come along, had him kept in chains to keep him from following as she took her entire house and left.
Well, now that he remembers that...time to drink some more, so he can forget it again. Oghren belches, gets up, scratches various itchy bits, and wanders off in search of the next pub.
Acrobat
Everything is coming to an end it is beginning I finally have all the pieces I need, all the ingredients, all the plan we must not falter I can finally make it happen We must not fail it is a monstrous thing to do it will change the world it is murder it is punishment, those who will fall have turned their backs on the oppressed for too long innocents will fall as well their sacrifice will be remembered things will get so much worse before they get better the world must change the stalemate has gone on for too long there can be no compromise I just wish... there can be no peace I lied to her it is unimportant it was necessary, but... only the goal matters I'm going to keep lying to her it is unimportant I love her it is unimportant she keeps me human we are not human, we don't need to be human, all we need is justice she takes my cracks and makes them whole, she fills all the empty spaces, she brings light into the dark there is no emptiness, there is only the task I'm still a man, in addition to whatever else I am, I need that we are a merely a tool to achieve an end, the end is all that matters I too am a sacrifice to justice the tool is discarded when the task is accomplished, the tool is of no importance how can I work on behalf of mankind if I lose my own humanity? we are the task I should never have let her love me, it was always going to lead to heartbreak for us both she helped us accomplish our goal, she is worthy she's so much more than worthy she is a fighter for justice she's true and good and kind, she shares my laughter, she carries me when I fall, she deserves better than this her reward will be justice, justice will come to all who will grant her justice when I fall achieving this? what will give her strength then? what if I break her, what if I ruin the only bright thing I've ever found if she does not understand our sacrifice she is not worthy I have to protect her from this, from myself, as much as I can, even if she never forgives me we do not protect, we avenge she protects, she's given me chances to protect, we've helped so many escape and find freedom she's helped us avenge the fallen and destroy the unjust she's protected me from myself, from Templars, from the Circle all the unjust shall fall before our wrath but there are still so many, too many, we can't keep doing it this way, one at a time, even a few at a time is too few we must free them all the system cannot be saved the system needs to be brought low, destroyed, crushed, the enslaved must be freed there can be no compromise we shall not compromise with the unrighteous there can be no peace there must be war freedomwarfreedomwarfreedomanger
Maker, grant us victory. Or else all this is meaningless.
Characters and Pairings: Malcolm/Leandra, f!Hawke/Anders, f!Hawke/Isabela, Zevran, Oghren, Anders-Justice-Vengeance
Rating: K+
Words: For all six drabbles combined, 4,135.
Summary: A few months ago a friend who was museblocked asked me to join her in writing a set of fics loosely based on/inspired by songs from U2's Achtung Baby album. She took the evens, I took the odds. Here's what resulted on my end. Knowing the songs shouldn't be required though might add a layer of depth (links provided for those curious)
Spoilers?: Not for Legacy. Not even really for DA2, aside from Foreshadowing to the max in the last one.
Note: Written before Legacy or the Mage Pack DLC came out, so only dubiously in canon; I'd write Malcolm differently now.
Zoo Station
He smirks, looking up at the viscount's keep, which tonight is hosting a huge masquerade ball for all the nobles. No one's allowed in without an invitation, true...if they come in through the front doors. And while armored bodyguards are all very well, it's amazing how few of them ever think to look up. Astonishing, really, how they overlook the opportunities available to those who aren't weighed down with half a ton of metal. It's a wonder they're able to catch any apostates at all...
Still, he'd better be cautious, inasmuch as he's ever cautious. Getting away from Templars who are expecting magic rather than more mundane methods is surprisingly easy if you can keep your head, but these fellows aren't looking for apostates, just ordinary gate-crashers. Which for once is what he is.
Well, not an ordinary gate-crasher...he's not an ordinary anything. And quite smug about it, thank you very much.
Quietly, he moves to the edge of the roof. This is the closest building he could find to the keep; it's still farther than he'd like, but good things are worth a little risk...and he has planned this very carefully. In just another moment, the guard will come around the corner...yes, there he is, walking by...turning the other corner...
Malcolm whispers under his breath and gestures, and the guard falls over, slipping on a small but well-placed amount of grease that hadn't been on the ground a moment beforehand. The clatter of armor crashing to the ground, combined with an impressive amount of invective, nicely covers the sound of Malcolm placing a long ladder between his roof and the roof of the gardener's shed. The Templar still hasn't sorted himself out by the time Malcolm has scurried across. Malcolm brings the ladder with him; he's examined this shed in the past, and it contains a number of ladders already, and he can leave this one with the rest and it will attract no notice. While he's doing that, he retrieves and changes into the costume he hid there days before, after pulling it out of the paper he used to keep it clean and protected from the dirt that accumulates in sheds. When he exits, he looks like any other partygoer, in a colorful silk tunic and trews and a domino mask. Part one completed, perfectly.
Part two: the rendevous. He loves that word. Orlesians have all the best language.
She's waiting exactly where they planned, wearing a surprisingly uncomplicated gown; compared to the frothy confections being worn by the other guests, it stands out in its simplicity. The bird mask, on the other hand, is a wonder of feathers and glitter. Again, all part of the plan. Though he briefly forgets the plan as she pulls off her mask and smiles hugely for him, eyes shining with delight and anticipation. Gallantly, he bows and kisses her fingers. She curtseys, and he bends to kiss her fingers again, perhaps a little more fervently this time--
When he's rapped on the knuckles by a fan, held by the third member of their conspiracy: Leandra's friend Marian, who is grinning as broadly as Leandra but has a raised eyebrow: this is not the time. Ah well. He'll be able to kiss Leandra's fingers as much as he wants after tonight, not to mention all the rest of her...Marian is wearing a rather more substantial costume that makes her resemble a bear, albeit a surprisingly attractive bear. Her choice of costume had solicited some comments from the gossips as well, but Marian delights in being eccentric and a reputation for being unwomanly won't bother her in the least. And the bulk of her costume is largely an illusion, hiding certain things they'll need to pull this off...
Marian and Leandra duck into an alcove in the gardens. Nothing unusual about that, many friends and couples are doing exactly the same thing in order to have more private conversations--or in the case of some of the couples, "conversations"--than they can have in the stifling ballroom. Marian and Leandra, however, use their few moments out of sight to effect a costume change, as quickly as they can. They're both trying hard not to laugh. Neither is succeeding. Ah well, that just adds to the illusion that they're friends exchanging gossip about the latest inappropriate love affairs amongst the nobility...
Which, of course, is true.
When they emerge, Marian is wearing Leandra's costume, whereas Leandra is wearing an entirely new outfit, one that vaguely suggests a tree-rat. It's a simple costume as well, just a brown dress and mask with cowl; it had to be simple, or else Marian wouldn't have been able to wear it under her original costume and thus smuggle it in. Marian's own original costume will be well hidden in the bushes, and if later when she retrieves it it's covered with a certain amount of leaves and dirt, well, it won't be the first time Marian has disappeared during a party only to emerge later looking like she's been rolled in the grass...Leandra and Marian exchange one last, fierce embrace with parting words, and Malcolm clasps her hand tightly, letting his eyes say his thanks. Marian flashes them a grin and all three return to the ballroom.
Now comes the fun part, the beautifully simple part. Now that Leandra's in her new costume they mingle with the other masqueraders for a while, dance one or two of the dances surrounded by a cacophany of other "animals", and then stroll out. As simple as that. They walk through the ballroom and out the front door, because while the guards are immensely cautious about who they allow in, people who are leaving at once cease to be important.
The party inside will go on for hours, he knows. Marian will spend most of the rest of the evening imitating Leandra and leading that poor Orlesian boy along. He won't be able to tell it isn't really his fiancee; he and Leandra barely know each other. Leandra's parents will beam with approval from a distance and not interrupt, grateful that their stubborn daughter is at last behaving herself. Towards the end of the party Marian will replace her original costume--not removing the Leandra-dress, which is uncomplicated enough that it can be worn underneath without being discovered--and "Leandra" will effectively disappear into thin air, hours after her actual disappearance. The only bit of actual evidence they will have left behind will be Leandra's mask, which Marian cannot smuggle out but will leave somewhere innocuous, ideally with other abandoned masks. Few people at a masquerade keep their masks on for the entire evening, and they tend to pile up by the evening's end. No one will have noticed either Leandra or Marian approach the front door, which will help protect Marian from being blamed for her part in the elopement; her parents put up with a great deal from their only child, but even they have limits. Even if anyone does manage to put all the pieces together and guess how the disappearance was managed, it will take hours or perhaps days to accomplish.
And by that time, they'll be long gone.
Malcolm grins at his beloved, who laughs back up at him, eyes flashing as she squeezes his hand.
Life with her is going to be his last, best adventure. And he can't wait for it to start.
One
They don't talk about anything anymore. Nothing important. Small commonplaces they can manage, battle exchanges, communal talk with the group. When they're at home, the odd questions and statements that come with living with someone. Hand me that robe, ask Bodahn if he can do this, can you add some more wood to the fire. Please and thank you. Courtesies. They can be courteous, but not honest. She misses the days when they could be honest with each other. No; she misses the days when she wanted him to be honest with her. Now, she knows without asking that she doesn't want to know, doesn't want her suspicions confirmed, even assuming he would trust her enough to confirm them. So she doesn't ask, and he doesn't tell, and they are courteous.
He broke something in her with his demand that she help him without asking questions, with his declaration that if she refused it would mean she didn't love him. They both know it. She did help him, and he knew better than to thank her, and they haven't spoken about it since. Speaking would mean having to acknowledge that too much has already been said.
They cling to each other in the night as though clinging to the night, as though that will keep the dawn from breaking, the new day starting, and every moment that leads towards sunrise is oppressive. In the dark, for a little while at least, they can pretend. Their hands and mouths exchange the words they cannot, the comforts and endearments and love they can't speak anymore. And if there's an undertone of dread, regret, despair, that can be pushed aside in the fever of lovemaking.
But not pushed far, and afterwards, every night, she folds herself into a tight ball, and wonders who will carry her when he falls.
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses
Isabela tugs the shirt over her head with difficulty. It's tighter than she expected...well, her breasts are substantial. She smirks. That will work to advantage in this scenario, anyway. She's at risk of damaging the shirt, but it's not one of Hawke's favorites, so who cares? Best not to tease her lover about her smaller bust size, however. Unless she can do so in a way that will lead to a wet shirt contest...mmmm...
Isabela shakes her head, returning to the task at hand. Shirt accomplished, she tugs on the breeches. Those go on easily enough, Hawke is a bit larger in the hips than she is. She loves that, those delicious hips that just beg for hands to circle and caress them and...right, distracted again. Belt pouch, weapon sheaths, other various accessories follow next; her own jewelry and scarf have already been given to her partner-in-crime for Hawke's own preparations. She ties her hair into as tight a bun as she can manage, which is the closest she can get to an approximation of Hawke's pixie-short hairstyle. The game might have been her idea originally, but she draws the line at cutting her hair for it.
There. That seems to be all the details sorted. Whistling with anticipation, she opens the door and strolls back into bedroom.
Hawke is waiting, leaning across a table in an unusually provocative manner; Isabela realizes with a thrill that Hawke is copying her stance. Once, the idea of someone knowing her well enough to mimic her unconscious habits would have sent her running, but with Hawke...well, she doesn't mind. In accordance with the game, Hawke is wearing Isabela's usual outfit, white bodice untied at the front to reveal creamier curves than her own, and parted at the sides to show those gorgeous hips...Isabela's gold hoops twinkle at the ears, and the head-scarf highlights those astonishing blue eyes. "Looking for me, sweet thing?" Hawke mumurs.
"Mm, I certainly am," Isabela purrs. She should be trying to talk as Hawke would, but just at the moment she doesn't really remember how Hawke would talk before sex, she's too busy thinking about sex. "Do I look as good as you do in that outfit? No wonder everyone's always after me."
Hawke laughs and saunters around the table, hips swaying. "Personally I think you look much better out of it."
Isabela smirks. "It's been said."
Later, when the costumes are discarded, when they're entwined in each other, it occurs to Isabela how much she's changed, how much both of them have changed. The things she's given up for this don't feel like a sacrifice, however; she doesn't feel any less herself. Instead she feels like more than herself. Who is Hawke, and who is Isabela? They're lost in each other, lost in loving, and for the first time in her life Isabela flings her head back and lets herself drown.
Author's note: Anyone wanting to draw me fanart of this will get cookies. Lots of cookies. All the cookies.
The Fly
Zevran lifts an eyebrow at the man who joins him at his table in the back of the tavern. "I was not expecting company," is all he says. "Have you some business with me?" He signals to a barmaid, who brings a bottle of wine and two glasses.
The stranger--who is not a stranger, Zevran knows perfectly well who he is, although they have not met--snorts. "Spare me the pleasantries. I know all about your business. You are an Antivan Crow, and you are in town to kill me."
Zevran pours them each a glass of wine, and offers one to the stranger, who takes it but does not drink. "And yet, believing this, you choose to sit at a table with me? I am impressed by your audacity, I admit."
"Don't play games. I want to make a deal. Whatever you've been offered by the Crows, I will pay triple if you instead take out the man who hired the hit on me."
Zevran makes a clucking sound under his nose. "Oh my friend, you do not understand how the Crows work. As I understand it--of course I have no personal knowledge as I am not a Crow myself, whatever you may think--" The man snorts again, this time with disbelief, but doesn't interrupt further. "--once a contract has been taken, assassins are sent until it is completed. If an assassin undertakes a contract and then for any reason refuses to complete it, why then, the next sent is to take his life as well." He holds up his glass in a toast and takes a sip before continuing. "So you see, your request is...problematic, to say the least."
The man looks unconcerned. "I am offering triple the amount offered. I know what my life must have been worth; the Crows are as mercenary as any other group."
"Ah, but they consider a bargain concluded to be a matter of honor."
Zevran holds out the other glass of wine; the man ignores it and slams a fist down on the table. "An assassin, speaking of honor?"
"Well, you must have some faith in the honor of assassins, must you not? Or else you would not be sitting with me, even though you are so discourteous as to refuse to drink the wine I have just bought you."
"I'm not such a fool. You can't attack me here, not with so many witnesses. You'd never get away with it. But poison, that's another matter."
Zevran shrugs, unoffended. "If you prefer, we can trade glasses. You have seen me drink from this one, you know it cannot be poisoned."
"You could have taken an antidote and poisoned them both. I don't trust you. I just want you to deliver my message."
Zevran holds up his hands. "You wound me! I give you my word I have no intentions of poisoning you. But if you are unwilling to share in the pleasure of a harmless glass of wine, that is your concern."
The man's eyes are fierce. "And my message?"
Zevran shrugs and lowers his voice. "I will deliver it, in exchange for, shall we say, ten gold pieces. Paid in advance. But I do not think it will aid you."
The man visibly relaxes. "That's all I ask." He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a small pouch, and counts out the coins. "I'm sure your Guildmaster will be reasonable."
Zevran smiles. "He is a man of business, it is true." He nods a farewell and leaves the tavern.
The man sinks into a seat, and breathes a sigh of relief. He sits in the tavern for a time, but doesn't order anything, not--quite--trusting the assassin to not have arranged for poison somewhere. He's always had a dread of poison. Finally he leaves and makes his way home.
He is only a block away when a hand reaches out from a nearby alley and pulls him in; another hand shoves a dagger into the small of his back, between the vertebrae, severing the spine. It only takes a second. He is released, and falls to the ground. His legs cannot hold him, and he has only seconds left.
"Your word--" he croaks, before blood chokes his throat.
"Was good; I never lie. You have not been poisoned. You have been set upon. It is entirely different." Zevran smirked. "I dislike killing by poison. It is so impersonal. I will deliver your message to the Crows, as promised; I never said I would do so before fulfilling my task. It would have availed you nothing, believe me. As I told you, the Guildmaster is a man of business, and it would not be good for business for word to spread that the Crows may be bribed. You should have let me buy you a glass of wine, my friend. It is such a shame to let you go to your gods without that last courtesy. Ah well, your choice."
Zevran walks away, whistling, as the man breathes his last in the alleyway.
Tryin' to Throw Your Arms Around the World
Oghren wakes up in a gutter. More specifically, he wakes up in a pool of his own vomit, in a gutter, with a head that's pounding so hard it might as well be the sodding Anvil of the Void. As usual, he doesn't remember much. He idly wonders if the amnesia is deliberate or accidental this time, then shrugs and doesn't bother to find out. He could've been drinking to forget, there's always something he needs to forget. Or he could've been jumped and beaten by a group of nughumpers who then kicked him in the head for a while when he was down; it doesn't happen often, it takes a lot of sodding nughumpers to take down the mighty Oghren even now, but it can be done if there's enough of them. Or most likely he was drinking to forget and then was jumped and then was drinking to forget he'd been jumped, or perhaps the other way around. Except that the other way around is the same as the first way around...?
Oghren groans and rolls over, which at least pulls his beard out of the vomit. He'd better find a bucket of water to throw over his head sometime soon. Or maybe just take a lava bath. Heh, that'd get him clean. Even Branka couldn't complain, and Branka can always complain.
Oh yeah, Branka. That's why he was drinking. She's finally actually for-real-this-time left, off to the Deep Roads to search for the Anvil. She refused point blank to allow him to come along, had him kept in chains to keep him from following as she took her entire house and left.
Well, now that he remembers that...time to drink some more, so he can forget it again. Oghren belches, gets up, scratches various itchy bits, and wanders off in search of the next pub.
Acrobat
Everything is coming to an end it is beginning I finally have all the pieces I need, all the ingredients, all the plan we must not falter I can finally make it happen We must not fail it is a monstrous thing to do it will change the world it is murder it is punishment, those who will fall have turned their backs on the oppressed for too long innocents will fall as well their sacrifice will be remembered things will get so much worse before they get better the world must change the stalemate has gone on for too long there can be no compromise I just wish... there can be no peace I lied to her it is unimportant it was necessary, but... only the goal matters I'm going to keep lying to her it is unimportant I love her it is unimportant she keeps me human we are not human, we don't need to be human, all we need is justice she takes my cracks and makes them whole, she fills all the empty spaces, she brings light into the dark there is no emptiness, there is only the task I'm still a man, in addition to whatever else I am, I need that we are a merely a tool to achieve an end, the end is all that matters I too am a sacrifice to justice the tool is discarded when the task is accomplished, the tool is of no importance how can I work on behalf of mankind if I lose my own humanity? we are the task I should never have let her love me, it was always going to lead to heartbreak for us both she helped us accomplish our goal, she is worthy she's so much more than worthy she is a fighter for justice she's true and good and kind, she shares my laughter, she carries me when I fall, she deserves better than this her reward will be justice, justice will come to all who will grant her justice when I fall achieving this? what will give her strength then? what if I break her, what if I ruin the only bright thing I've ever found if she does not understand our sacrifice she is not worthy I have to protect her from this, from myself, as much as I can, even if she never forgives me we do not protect, we avenge she protects, she's given me chances to protect, we've helped so many escape and find freedom she's helped us avenge the fallen and destroy the unjust she's protected me from myself, from Templars, from the Circle all the unjust shall fall before our wrath but there are still so many, too many, we can't keep doing it this way, one at a time, even a few at a time is too few we must free them all the system cannot be saved the system needs to be brought low, destroyed, crushed, the enslaved must be freed there can be no compromise we shall not compromise with the unrighteous there can be no peace there must be war freedomwarfreedomwarfreedomanger
Maker, grant us victory. Or else all this is meaningless.